


Close

by LipstickAndWhiskey (CopperMarigolds)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, F/M, Language, house fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8697250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperMarigolds/pseuds/LipstickAndWhiskey
Summary: Hunting a witch is never fun- but when a last-ditch spell curses Dean, the two of you can’t dance around each other anymore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This one right here. Augh. This one was a struggle, but I love how it turned out. I hope you do too, lovelies.
> 
> This is also part of @torn-and-frayed‘s Songs of Supernatural Season 3 Challenge with the song “I Put A Spell On You” by Screamin’ Jay Hawkins

It all started with a murder. Most everything in your life did, as did any hunter’s.

Police found a woman dead in her apartment, choked to death. The interesting part was it was her tongue that the medical examiner found lodged in her throat, a feat literally humanly impossible. People kept turning up dead after that, each person dying by some form of hyperbole.

So here you were, shacked up in some small-town motel that you were sure had more rats than people currently occupying it. Sam sat on his double bed, laptop perched precariously on his lap as he researched. Dean sat at the old dilapidated chair in the corner of the room, sunk far into it since the springs had long ago broken. He used the tablet, sifting through whatever traffic cam feeds he could get his hands on and searching for anything suspicious. Then there was you. You were on hold with the sheriff’s department, the same god-awful elevator music you hated grating in your ears as you waited for someone with a brain to talk to you.

‘The officer you need to talk to will be with you shortly’, they said.

_Yeah, right._

Dean peeked up over his tablet at the sound of your disgruntled groan, creases between his eyebrows. “Any luck?”

You rubbed your temples, phone still braced to your ear. “Nope. I think it’d be faster for me to send a raven instead.”

The creases disappeared as a chuckle rose from him, sending sparks lighting through your chest. You always had a sense of pride whenever you managed to make the handsome hunter laugh or smile, since it felt like it was far too long since you’d last seen him look happy.

You refocused on the phone call, if you could call it that, pacing back and forth. Dean’s eyes didn’t leave your form though; you could feel his eyes on you as you focused on the dingy old carpet that seemed to have changed from blue to grey at some point over the years. You were close to throwing your phone at that point before Sam shouted ‘Bingo!’, giving you full permission to abandon the call.

“It’s a witch,” Sam declared, “a pretty nasty one too, it seems.”

“Ugh, great. Witches. Fan-fucking-tastic,” Dean groaned. You knew about his deep hatred of witches, having ganked a few with the boys before. He always whined and groaned about their bodily fluids and general ‘grossness’ as he liked to call it.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, exasperated with his complaining. It seemed like he was much more on edge and easily upset these days; much more quick to get his metaphorical panties in a twist. You weren’t quite sure why he was like that, but Sam definitely had his sneaking suspicions.

The cramped motel room was starting to make you feel confined and jittery, so you decided it’d be the perfect time for a supply trip. The store wasn’t too far from the motel either, so a walk would do you good and help clear your head.

“Alright, I’m heading to the store. Tonight we can go gank the witch and have a few beers after. Sound good?” you asked, peering at the brothers.

Sam half-shrugged, a kind smile on his face. “Sounds fine to me. Can you bring me back a salad? Any kind is fine with me.”

You rested your hands on your hips, smiling back at him. “Sure thing, Sammy. What about you Dean? Want me to bring anything back for you?” As your eyes shifted to him he quickly ducked his head, running his finger across a scratch on the small kitchenette table. “Dean?”

He peeked up at you, head still bowed. “Hmm?”

Your brow lifted at his curious demeanor. “Want me to bring you anything back from the store?” you asked, tilting your head. “Besides the customary pie, that is,” you added as an afterthought. His head shot up at that, a grin on his face at the mention of pie.

“Apple?” he inquired, a dreamy look in his eyes.

“Yup. Pecan if they don’t have it, right?” you asked, hoping you got his second choice right. Apparently you did, as he smiled harder yet, those cute dimples showing as they only did on rare occasions.

“Alright. I’ll be back in a few,” you said, grabbing your leather jacket and heading out the door.

As soon as the door closed, Dean stood at the table, still looking at the empty space you just occupied.

“Dude,” Sam sighed, “you’ve gotta stop that.”

Dean turned to him, a grumpy look on his face. “Doing what?”

His brow raised at the question, bitch face directed at his brother. “You know what.”

Dean spread his arms open wide, “Obviously I don’t. Just tell me!”

Sam shot Dean a disbelieving glance, obviously not buying his grumpy declaration. Dean was obviously so enamoured with you that his lingering looks and eagerness to be close to you did not go unnoticed by his observant brother. Hell, anyone would have to be blind to not notice the way his eyes softened when they landed on you, and how he tried to crowd in close to you at every opportunity.

“Dude, you look at her like she hung the friggin’ stars. Not to mention that you get that look in your eye every time she does something nice for you.”

Crossing his arms defensively, Dean leaned against the wall hoping Sam would drop the subject. Of course, Sam being the person he was, he didn’t.

“Why don’t you just tell her you like her?” he argued, “you know how rare connections like these are, Dean. You should take any chance at happiness you find. Especially in this life.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I can’t do that to her. You know that.”

Scoffing, Sam pushed on. “You know that’s such bullshit, right? Let me guess, you’re pulling the ‘you’re poison’ card, right? You’re not. You’re just hiding.”

That definitely hit a nerve.

Dean shot forward, finger thrust in Sam’s direction. “I am  _not_ hiding, Sam. I’m saving her from getting hurt- or worse, _dead_. Everyone we care about dies, Sam. I’m not about to do that to her. Not if I can help it.”

The room fell silent, his words hanging thick and heavy in the air.

Sam’s eyes held a sadness in them; sad that Dean felt the way he did. He knew how truly awful it was to lose someone you cared about, but to also feel like he didn’t deserve any good in his life was heartbreaking.

The fierce look in Dean’s eyes shimmered behind the green depths long after he recrossed his arms, standing in the dingy motel room looking more emotionally strung-out than Sam had seen him in a long time. Sam wanted to say how Dean deserved any happiness he could find, that he deserved to have the things he wanted in life. He’d told him time and again all the those things, but Sam knew by the look in Dean’s eyes that he’d only deny it and bury it deep down. The true ‘Winchester way’.

* * *

The three of you made your way into the old dilapidated house on the edge of town, sidestepping random books scattered haphazardly across the floor. You were sure the witch was here, all trails leading back to the cliched hiding place. Dean stood in front of you, scanning the hallway with his gun raised and ready. He’d insisted on going in ahead of you, claiming he wanted to ‘hurry up and gank this bitch’.

You tapped his arm as you got to the living room, motioning your head toward the kitchen and the first room. He hesitated a moment before nodding, watching you as you made your way to the kitchen before he made a move in the opposite direction. Sam had made his way through the backdoor, sweeping the house back to front as you and Dean sweeped front to back, a fact that comforted you as the two of you split.

The floorboards groaned under your weight, carefully scanning the area for any signs of the witch that lived there. That’s when you found it.

Stark red against metallic silver, it sat on the countertop. Thrown haphazardly across the counter amongst spell ingredients, crystals, and other odds and ends. It dripped scarlet onto an old book, staining the open pages. It was fresh- so fresh that it had you urgently searching the room for any signs of her, hoping that she wasn’t about to unleash a nasty spell on the three of you.

You gripped your pistol a little tighter, trying desperately to calm the furious beating of your heart. Eyeing the stained spellbook, you scanned the open pages quickly but all you came up with was latin. You weren’t proficient enough to read most of it, but time on the job let you pick out a few words before a loud crash startled you.

“Son of a bitch!”

And that was your cue. Dashing into hallway, you saw Sam dart into one of the larger rooms with his gun raised high. You hurried after him, careful to make sure you kept vigilant so you couldn’t be caught off guard. Fighting broke out, things smashing into walls, the noise echoing through the bare house as you finally got to the doorway.

The room was a wreck, Sam sprawled out on the floor as Dean tussled with the scraggly-looking old witch. She was too close to him to get a good shot of, so you lowered your gun. You snuck up behind her, managing to get her in a headlock as Dean reached for the knife in his boot.

One latin word was all it took to send him flying, another to send you skidding over to the nearest wall, stuck like a starfish and unable to move. She raised one hand toward Dean, chanting in latin as the blood ran freely down her palm. All you could do was try to fight the invisible force holding you to the wall as Dean seemed to try to shake off the dizziness he felt as he wobbled uncertainly onto his feet.

She continued chanting in the old language, a bright light starting to fill the room. You squinted against the brightness, struggling to help until a loud shot rang out.

The light quickly faded, revealing a large gunshot wound staining the fabric of the witch’s dress. She clutched helplessly at the fatal wound before dropping at what seemed like slow motion to the floor. You glanced over at Sam and Dean, both wavering on their feet. Sam seemed okay, gun in hand, looking disheveled. Dean, though…

You quickly moved to his side as he braced himself against the dingy wall. He looked shaken and a little pale, worrying your frenzied mind.

“Dean…?”

He held his hand up placatingly, gasping out an ‘m fine’. You grabbed at him anyway, checking for injuries, not noticing the way his body went rigid at the contact. You couldn’t find anything physically wrong with him, so you went ahead promised yourself that you’d give him a once over again at the motel.

Your thoughts were interrupted though, as you heard a solid ‘thunk’ come from behind you. You looked back to see Sam sprawled out on the floor again, looking as though _he_ were the starfish. You glanced at Dean, and he jerked his head toward his brother, the silent conversation letting you know he was okay and that you should check on Sammy.

* * *

The house was on fire, and that was not something you wanted to deal with at three in the morning. If you had at least a cup of coffee in you, it would’ve been a different story maybe. But the fact was, the witch burned far too many unattended candles. Why witches seemed to own so many black candles, you’d never understand, but you were glad that at least you didn’t have to bother with cleaning up the house and hiding the body.

The three of you sped away, leaving the orange and yellow flames behind you as you drove back to the motel. The ride was quiet but as it went on, you noticed Dean’s low groans of discomfort. They increased the further he drove, and before you could mention it, you were pulling into a parking spot.

Sam was right as rain again, though bruised and battered like Dean. He quickly opened his door, hesitating before shutting it. Dean made no move to get out, rather gripping the steering wheel tightly instead. Sam went on ahead inside, leaving the two of you sitting in the impala in the low light of early morning.

You put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, noticing the tension in his neck fade at your touch. He seemed to start breathing a little easier, turning to look into your questioning eyes.

“You’re sure you’re ok, Dean? You’ve been making noises the entire ride back.”

His flirtatious smirk caught you off guard, not helping the butterflies you always caught at the sight of him.

“Worried about me sweetheart? I’m good. Promise.”

You eyed him hesitantly before letting go of his shoulder. “If you say so, Winchester.” you replied, not quite buying his nonchalance. You got out of the car, careful to not slam the door as you made your way to your room. Dean seemed to follow close behind, nearly knocking into you as you stopped to open the door. He sat at the end of one of the beds as you made your way to the kitchenette area to grab a beer.

It was then that Dean doubled over, crying out in excruciating pain. Sam was immediately at his side, asking him countless questions. You made your way over too, worried that he was hiding an injury from the two of you- which was not uncommon for the bonehead to do. The closer you got however, the more Dean’s cries subsided.

Sam looked over at you, worried about the fact that his brother wouldn’t answer any of his questions.

“Dean,” you asked, “tell us what’s going on!”

“Oh god it hurts- make it stop. It’s like a buncha knives in me. Sonovabitch!”

You gave up all pretense, grabbing his shoulders and pulling at his flannel. You managed to get it off, leaving him in his t-shirt. You poked and prodded, but it seemed like the more you touched him, the calmer he became. Finally, he grabbed you by the forearms, halting the movement. Your eyes slid to his, his face still stuck in a grimace but not as severe as earlier.

“Wait- wait.” he begged, “ _bitch-_ that bitch cursed me. I’m fucking cursed!”

Your eyes widened, sliding over to an equally panicked Sam. “Do you remember the curse? I was pretty out of it when she threw me,” Sam asked.

Your brows furrowed as you sifted through your memories, hoping you could manage to remember the words. “I’m not sure Sam. I think- maybe _‘pacatus proximitas’_? I think that’s what she said- though that’s only a few of the words she said.”

“Wait, Dean- does it get less painful when she’s closer to you?” Sam asked, ducking to look Dean in the eyes.

He paused, looking between the two of you before nodding slowly.

Sam sighed, running a hand down his face. “Well, he’s not gonna die. He has a proximity curse on him. _‘Pacatus proximitas’_ translates to peaceful proximity. You were the first to touch him,” he nodded toward you, “so it’s probably just tied to your proximity.”

The room fell silent, the three of you soaking in the news. Dean was the first to break the silence, rising to his feet only to flop back onto the bed again in pain. He clutched at his stomach, wheezing as he breathed out a low _‘shit’_.

“So what do we do, Sam?”

* * *

You didn’t imagine you’d spend your day clutching onto Dean like a koala while Sam researched proximity curses. You figured you’d sleep a couple of hours after watching crappy pay-per-view with a cold beer. But no. Here you were, trying to maintain as much bodily contact with Dean to keep him from being in excruciating pain. Your life was weird, to say the least.

The two of you had spent a good half hour trying to figure out the most comfortable way of doing this. Standing, laying down, and any awkward spot in between. The two of you eventually settled with you in his lap, arms wrapped around his neck and his around your waist. You’d sat in a ratty armchair, laptop in your lap as the two of you tried to help Sam research.

“Do you think this article is worth the read?” you asked, hoping Dean would tell you it wasn’t. He, however, was otherwise occupied. He sat staring off into the distance, unseeing. “Dean?” you called, dragging him from the confines of his mind.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low and gravelly from unuse. His eyes met yours, a funny look in his eye.

“You okay there? You zoned out on me.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good,” he assured. A smile curled the corners of his lips. “Never thought I’d have to get hit with a spell to get you in my lap.”

There he was. Good ‘ol Dean was back and joking in the face of serious conversation. Always such a flirt.

You scoffed, smacking him in the shoulder playfully. “When you say things like that, it’s just to bug me, right?”

He chuckled, throwing his head back against the chair as he laughed with his whole body. The familiar warmth at being the cause of his laughter spread through your chest, warming your whole body. Watching his eyes crinkle and his mouth open in a wide grin made you fall for him all the more, the feel of his hands at your waist driving you slowly insane.

His laughter trailed off, leaving only a beaming smile on his face. The dopey look he held in his eyes catching you off-guard. In what Dean would only call a moment of weakness later, he reached a tentative hand up, brushing featherlight fingers across your cheek. He pushed a stray lock of hair up and out of your face, face soft and open in an intimate moment that seemed to last a small eternity.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed out, light and airy in the small space between you two. His eyes trailed from the spot on your face where his hand still lingered, up to your own sparkling eyes. You could swear your heart was going to beat out of your chest as you waited to see what would happen next, afraid that any move would make him stop touching you the way he was. As if you were something rare and priceless, worth all the money in the world.

“You make me feel so happy,” he confessed. His hand pressed to your cheek, and you leaned into his touch.

“You make me happy too, Dean.”

He smiled, brilliant and beaming. Sam cleared his throat behind the two of you, breaking the moment. The look Dean shot you convinced you that your conversation was far from over, but Sam’s voice drew your attention.

“You know, you guys picked a really odd time to have this conversation.”

* * *

Bless Sam. Really.

The moose was a research genius, managing to find a way to break the curse. A quick trip to the store and wham. No more koala.

Well, no more _forced_ koala.

The moment the curse was broken, the two of you found it hard to part. After being forced together for so long, you’d come to normalize it. You’d begun to crave it. If the longing looks Dean sent you, and lingering touches throughout the day were anything to go by, you’d say he felt the same.

By the time night fell, Sam was already sprawled across one of the doubles, snoring into his pillow. You and Dean snuck glances at each other over your bottles of beer, silent as you drank on the dingy fold-out couch.

“So..” he started, hesitant. “Do you- I mean we could- we can share if you’re cool with that. Or I could just take the couch.”

You finally looked him in the eye, a shy smile flickering across your lips.

“Dean, we spent a good few hours practically attached at the hip. Of course we can share. Unless _you_ don’t want to.”

“No,” he said immediately, setting his empty bottle down. “I mean, I’d like that. The sharing, that is.”

The two of you fell into a sort of quiet wordless dance as you brushed your teeth in the small bathroom, gliding easily around each other as you got ready to go to bed. You moved as if you’d done this countless times before, both sharing small touches here and there- passing the toothpaste, brushing past each other, each touch magnifying the feelings between you.

Dean was the first in bed, laying back in the scratchy sheets in his black tee and boxers. He’d fluffed the pillow under his head, nervous energy threatening to consume him. You were no better as your shaky hand pulled back the sheets, climbing into the warm bed, laying right next to six plus feet of muscle and heat.

The two of you laid side by side on your backs for awhile before you heard him let out a soft ‘fuck it’ before he laid an arm over your waist and pulled you flush with his own body. By all accounts, you should’ve been used to the heat of him against you. You blamed the layers of clothing he wore, dulling the feel of him, egregiously downplaying both his heat and feel.

_And boy did you feel._

Your hands pressed between the two of you, flat against his chest, his heat seeping into your palms. All you could think of was the way he felt. He toed the line between soft and muscular, his love for pie and burgers coming to mind as his thumb brushed soft arcs into your waist. He was so warm and you felt so safe with your head tucked under his chin that when he spoke, it startled you a little.

“This is really nice”

You hummed in agreeance, sliding a hand out to wrap around his waist. His feet tangled with your own, pulling further into a warm, safe cocoon that you had no desire to leave.

“Ya think- ya think we could do this?”

That had you more alert.

You pulled your head back, pushing at his chest to get a good look at him, the room only lit from the window where the edges of the curtain leaked lamplight. His bottom lip was clamped between his teeth, looking enticing as he waited for your reaction.

“You mean-” you trailed off, his head already bobbing.

You didn’t answer. Hell, you didn’t need to when your lips were crashing against his own, tongue smoothing over the spot where he bit at it. The surprised noise that rose in the back of his throat would be forever etched into your memory, along with the way his fingers dug into your hair as he cradled your head in his hand. He broke away, pressing small chaste kisses to any spot he could get to.

“I know I need you way more than you need me, but you make me want to be a better man. I want this. All of this, with you.”

“Dean,” you sighed, “you are the best man I know. I need you just as much as you need me. If we do this, we’re a team. You and me. Ride or die. Together.”

He kissed you again, his kiss saying all the things he couldn’t. All the promises he intended to keep, all the ways he wanted to protect you, all the ways he intended to care for you, and even all the ways he wanted to love you.

He pulled away, the two of you gasping for air. “Together,” he promised.

And Dean Winchester always kept his promises.


End file.
